8
8 Lydia
LydiaLydiaShe lies in bed, awake. Gary has already gone to work, and Lydia isn’t sure what time it is, and doesn’t really care. No inspiration this morning, and so she lies, the deflated version of herself, in clean sheets, that smell like Tide. She breathes in deeply. This has always been one of her favorite scents, but this morning it doesn’t do it for her. Her eyes trace the ceiling, having memorized its smoothness, its evenness. She knows its slight inconsistencies, remaining water marks from leaks long ago repaired, a testament to what the house has weathered.
How many hours has she spent lying like this, over the course of the last year? One of the perks of retirement, she had been told, is being able to sleep in. But Lydia doesn’t sleep, she can’t. It isn’t for lack of
